” She turned her face to the fire, gripped her hands upon her elbows, and drew her thin shoulders together in a shrug. The Trenchard estates will likewise be mine, for Sir Rowland is no more, and the youth, Thames, will never again see daylight. " "God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's hand. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. .
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